Winter had arrived
overnight, and
we had slept soundly through it, the
snow smothering
any sounds that dared
try to escape.
The morning arrived clear and sunny
and cold.
I was washing the dishes in that
old kitchen sink of ours when I noticed them—
footprints through the snow in our backyard—I couldn’t
say how many sets there were—
starting at the back fence and
proceeding directly
to our kitchen window. You
told me that you were going to head outside
to shovel the walk, but I told you
that I would take care of it, and I put on
my boots but no jacket, and I walked
out the back door, shovel held tightly
in hand. The tracks traced
the full perimeter of our house—
they appeared to be searching
for something—and they stopped
right outside of her
bedroom window—I couldn’t say
how many sets there were, or how long
they’d stood there while she slept.
I don’t know what
compelled me, but I turned the shovel
over, hurriedly using its edge to scrape
away the footprints there beneath the
window, the grass beneath them still
green and struggling to breathe.
And when I came back inside
you asked me
what I was up to out there, and I told you
that it was too cold
to shovel, that we should put on
another *** of coffee,
that we should stay inside
and not face the day,
and let the children
keep sleeping.
